Kaleidoscopes
by Internet Oracle
Summary: Practices, coaches, cleats, games, techniques, jerseys. That's all seventeen year old Percy Jackson knows. His whole world revolves around one thing. Soccer. When that one thing is snatched away from him, his whole world spirals off its hinges. As he fights an uphill battle to recovery, he starts to see life as more than just a soccer game.


People mark their lives in different ways. Some mark theirs by the places they visited. Others by the new things they've done. Some mark theirs simply by the numbers upon their calendar. But for me, my life has always been marked by jerseys. More specifically, soccer jerseys.

Every year before the ball drops and unveils a new year of opportunities and experiences, I would lay my jerseys out across the floor of my bedroom. Each jersey carefully spread on the carpet, lined up in the order of which I received them. For instance, I could look at the jersey I wore when I was ten and know that that was the first year I was ever team captain. I can look over at the jersey from when I was thirteen and know that that was their that I got recruited for state. I can look back on the ugly urine coloured jersey I wore in my first year of high school and know that that was the year I broke my ankle.

My mom says that I was born in a full uniform ready to play. It wasn't until I was eight years old that I realized that that was impossible. But that only made me more determined to make myself better.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of my father trying to teach me how to kick the ball. My mother was watching from the deck laughing at the two of us. My father was whispering encouraging things in my ear and telling me that the only way to get better was to practice. He said that a good player practices until he gets it right, but a great player practices until he doesn't get it wrong.

So that's what I did.

I practiced and practiced, everyday for hours on end. Making sure that I never made any mistakes, and if I did, I would practice that move over and over again until the movements were permanently etched into my brain. My parents signed me up for the everyone-is-welcome town league when I was about four years old.

I remember being very scared and shy. I didn't want to talk to any of the other kids my age, or let go of my moms hand for that matter. But as soon as my father put a ball at my feet and told me to go for it, I bolted off and had a lot of fun. So much fun that my parents had to literally drag me off the field. The only reason I agreed to get in the truck was because my parents both promised that I could come back the next week.

Soon enough I grew out of the kiddie everyone-is-welcome stage and moved onto a more competitive level. I played for many different clubs through the years and eventually someone thought I was good enough to make it on the under 14 state team. A letter had come in the mail addressed to me which I thought was strange. No one ever sent me anything. It was usually addressed to my parents. Bills, wedding invitations, bills, postcards from relatives that we were only distantly related to and my father insisted that the only reason they sent us anything was to rub in the fact that were away on a glamorous vacation and we were stuck in the cold bluster if New York City, and of course, let us not forget, bills.

The letter had come in a crisp white envelope, with our address printed on the top next to an impressive array of multi-coloured stamps, and in the top written in fine green ink it read: _For: Perseus Alexander Jackson_.

Upon opening the letter I found out that a scout had gone to one of my games and had picked me out and thought that I had massive potential and invited me to train at an even higher level. I had been ecstatic. The kind words used in the letter made me grin so wide it hurt my face but I couldn't stop no matter how hard I tried.

After that, soccer had sort of begun to consume my life. School, social events and everything else had sort of become an after thought. I still keep up with my friends who weren't on my team though. It was kind of hard not to. They each tried their best to make it to as many of my games as possible. They would always stand faithfully in the stands dutifully cheering and whooping as loud as they possibly could. Much to the annoyance of the spectators around them. But they didn't really care. And I definitely didn't, I loved running up the field with their cheerful shouts of encouragement floating around me.

After each game Grover would come up and clap me on the back and say:

"Awesome job out there pal!"

Shortly followed by a lively conversation about various plays. Annabeth was there too. When she could. The girls life revolved around school the same way mine revolved around soccer. She passed every single one of her classes with flying colours. Not even the normal kind of flying colours. The kind that light up all neon and flashing, the kind that sped passed the window of your car driving through the very heart of Times Square at night. Lighting up the faces of pedestrians and leaving tourists gawking. Except the tourists just happened to be everyone in the history of the world ever.

We like to tease her sometimes for being oh so very wise at such a young age, but we never really mean it. She likes to tease me back for being nothing but a dumb jock. And though my grades aren't as great as hers (mine are the kind of colours that are on the sign in front of the dingy restaurant a few blocks up from our school. Sometimes the light in the B flickers on but it's usually only for a moment) I'm not dumb. She knows this too, but everyone can be considered dumb if they're put next to Annabeth. Which, of course, she takes a great amount of pride in. Sometimes a little too much.

I tried to teach her how to play once, only once though. Because it ended with her smashing the ball at my face (after an admitteble amount of teasing on my part) and promptly broke my nose. Which was followed by my father yelling at me from the window to just walk it off and that injury was in the contract. I wasn't sure if he was referring to soccer or being friends with Annabeth. Either way, I still had to go to the ER.

Thalia would come too. Bringing along her trusty Vuvuzela. It's a long plastic horn that emits one loud monotone note, it tends to grate the nerves of everyone but the wielder. I think that's why Thalia liked it so much. The Vuvuzela originated in South Africa and they would be blown during soccer matches. The instalment soon made its way to North America and into the hands of Thalia Grace. Sometimes, if she was in a good mood, she'd let Rachel or Nico blow it. She also liked to use her Vuvuzela as an alarm clock on some unsuspecting friends.

My parents were always at my games too. Perhaps not as loud and rowdy as my friends but they were still present and supportive. Soccer was what kept my heart beating. I breathed soccer. Everything made sense when a laced up my cleats. It was what helped me through rough times, because no matter what was happening in my life I could always go out to my back yard and kick a ball around.

Until I couldn't. Until everything changed.


End file.
